Variety
The Archangel's
Correspondent
I
F FOR A MOMENT
all men may be
divided into those with the char–
acter of fathers and those with the
character of sons, no one familiar
with Paul Rosenfeld will be in
doubt where to place him. Alter–
nately as enthusiastic and self-re–
proachful as a sensitive undergrad–
uate, until his last day he retained
a kind of filial status. Women were
charmed by him ; strangers took to
him; he was still boyishly warm
and open-hearted at the age of
fifty-six. This may have contrib–
uted to the sense
of
exceptional
bereavement felt by his colleagues
on the startling occasion of his
death. In addition to sentiments of
shock and grief, there may also
have been an identification of
themselves with him. Do not most
artists of the rebellious advance–
guard give the impression of being
Sons? When a new Ulysses is
born,
is he not instantly claimed by Mars
or Mercury, while Apollo must get
along with Telemachus? Certainly
this theme has been repeated often
enough in the characteristic litera–
ry works of our time. Is it not pos–
sible that a real artist-patriarch can
only be produced in a time of rela–
tive harmony between the indivi–
dual and society, under conditions
that obvioosly do not exist today?
Or is this a question of type and
character, anterior to conditiom?
In any case, it is unmistakably
a Son we discuss in Paul Rosen–
feld. Let us not however expect
any more of our modest metaphor.
Its purpose will have been served
if
it guides us to what I consider
the central fact about him, his
credo of defenselessness. For this
actor played Telemachus with such
romantic singleness of mind that
he spurned all props that might
have come from the classic theater
of the patriarchs-systematic train–
ing, technical discipline, calculated
effect, hard reasoning-and con–
ceived his performance in dash and
inspiration alone. In this he resem–
bled many poets who have also
made a code of helpless immatu–
rity, willing to cede shrewd, mani–
pulative crafts to their blood ene–
mies the journalists, if only they
themselves might be the occasional
. instruments of the timeless, rather
than the regular recorders of the
day. It is significant that one of our
most distinguished poets, Marianne
Moore, placing numerous examples
of his verbal skill in evidence, has
claimed Paul Rosenfeld as in spirit
a practitioner of her own art; it
must be observed, however, that he
did not write in verse, but since
his greatest stimulation seemed to
come from art-objects, in criticai
prose, and thus subjected himself
to an entirely different kind of
judgment.
No evaluation of his works will
be attempted in this brief note. He
